


Flowers for the Dead and Living

by firefly_quill



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, alternate universe - crime families, mild panic attacks, so much longing, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-27 21:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefly_quill/pseuds/firefly_quill
Summary: Patroclus' small flower shop is a space away from the wounds of his old life. Unfortunately, for better or worse, his old life isn't quite done with him yet.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This story is inspired by PricklyArt's mob/flower shop AU! Here is a taste of this fun world: <https://twitter.com/PricklyArt/status/1362906022151483392?s=20>
> 
> I'm sorry that this first chapter is so short; it felt like I needed to establish the premise first, and then the establishing scene seemed to stand alone quite well! 
> 
> If you had time, I would love to hear your thoughts! <3

It should have felt like defeat.

Patroclus couldn’t shake this thought as he peered into the flower shop window, hugging the extra copy of his resume tightly to his chest. Potted plants and buckets full of bouquets lined each side of the door, placed artfully on an array of stacked crates. The shop’s dark green door matched the rest of the façade and the wooden frames of its large windows. It was quaint, and bountiful despite the winter’s chill.

Asterius had pointed out the “Urgent: Help Wanted” sign in the shop that was just a few blocks away from their place a few days ago. Patroclus had admitted that he liked flowers, and that was all the encouragement Theseus had needed before darting off to rummage through both of their closets, declaring his intention of finding Patroclus the perfect outfit for his interview, were there to be one. Patroclus made sure to dial it back a few notches when the interview actually did come, to Theseus’ disappointment.

Patroclus arrived at Elysian Flowers ten minutes early, and it should have felt like defeat, because his resume loudly heralded (once again, Theseus’ work) his psychology degree, his scholarships, his immediate admittance to a prestigious medical school, his athleticism, his charity work. In other words, his resume proclaimed his failure, highlighted the paradox of being simultaneously over and under qualified, drew attention to the life he had to leave behind.

Still, he had faced worse, he reminded himself. He pulled at the door, and a gentle chime announced his arrival.

The door opened to allow a gust of warmth and humidity to escape. The late winter sun trapped by the large windows radiated pleasantly in the very air around him, bringing with it the gentle and fresh fragrance of the shop’s wares. Patroclus took a deep breath without even thinking to do so, and his shoulders relaxed just an inch.

The displays in the shop were as plentiful and beautiful as those outside of it. Whoever had assembled them clearly had good taste, and clearly had treat each bloom with the greatest care. Patroclus leaned over to examine a lovely ruby-red amaryllis when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

Oh right. The interview.

A stylish older lady stood behind the counter, lips pursed, arms crossed. She looked him over for several minutes, and while Patroclus was certain that she had come to a conclusion about him, he couldn’t quite read what that conclusion might be.

“Demeter,” she extended a hand, and he took it. “You must be Patroclus.”

She gestured for him to follow her into the back room, where two chairs were set up across from each other on opposite sides of a long worktable. They sat without another word. Her eyes darted quickly back and forth as she scanned his resume.

“This is impressive.” The expression on her face did not convey that she was impressed. “But I’m sure you have noticed this is not a medical practice.”

“I am glad that it is not,” Patroclus answered evenly. “I wouldn’t be qualified otherwise.”

“Hmm,” Demeter’s eyes narrowed, as though trying to figure out his game. “What is it that would cause a medical student, near top of his class, by your account, to quit school and apply for menial retail work?”

Patroclus tilted his head at the brazen question that had been delivered with a fair amount of judgment. He thought about lying, about the variety of half-truths that he could have told. He certainly needed the job. Even though Theseus and Asterius insisted on allowing him to stay with them for free, Patroclus desperately needed space from Theseus’ proclamations (the man only ever spoke in a soft shout), and he had barely left the apartment by his own volition for…had it truly been more than a year?

He needed this, if only to prove to himself that life could go on, that he could go on, that these things were possible even without Achilles.

Lying wasn’t his way though. Besides, he didn’t need to search far within himself for an answer to her question.

“Loss,” he said quietly, fixing his eyes on his own hands that were crossed in front of him on the table.

She started at the reply, and her eyes widened before softening just slightly. “Ah.”

They sat in silence for a moment that felt like an eternity. Demeter put his resume aside, her sharp eyes still fixed upon his. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but did not look away. When she spoke again, her voice was no longer as cold, but was still perfunctory.

“It is full-time work. You will begin training on Tuesday, as we are closed on Mondays. Our official shop hours are 9-4, but we start work at 7 to prepare and organize arrangements. Sometimes, preparations for larger orders will need to be done in the evening. You will be fairly compensated for your extra time.”

Patroclus blinked at her with surprise. While this was the answer he had hoped for, he had hardly expected it. “Are you certain you want to hire me?”

The corners of Demeter’s lips quirked up. “That is not the typical response to a job offer, young man.”

“Nor is it typical to hire someone with no experience in your field,” Patroclus pointed out.

They considered each other for a moment longer, and a silent understanding passed between them. Neither of them pressed the other for more.

“Tuesday at 7, then?” Patroclus asked.

“Don’t be late,” Demeter replied with a small smile.

It should have felt like defeat, but standing in the small shop that smelled faintly of something beautiful and green and new, having done this one small thing for himself after having been lost in his grief and in dreams of the past for such a long time—it should have felt like defeat, but after so long, it finally felt like victory.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus settles into his work at the flower shop. The shop acquires a new regular customer. A reoccurring gift (?) appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> Thank you so much for your enthusiasm! It means so much to me <3 This is my first attempt at a flower shop AU, and I hope that I will do it justice! 
> 
> Just a quick note: as there is a Mob AU going on in the background, there may be some blood and and angst in later chapters. I've tried to update the tags to reflect the story as a whole now, and will continue to update them as we go. 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts! <3

While Achilles had always insisted that Patroclus’ very presence kept him calm, Patroclus didn’t realize that the opposite was also true until he woke up one day to find Achilles gone. Patroclus’ anxiety was a silent, relentless, suffocating thing. It crept unseen by others in his chest, wrapping its tendrils around his heart, physically choking the breath from his body at its worst.

But the flower shop was a fresh start that smelled of new beginnings. It was a space apart in the city, not loaded with the remembrance of Achilles, not corrupted by the taste of blood.

Patroclus was certain now, several years later, that Demeter wasn’t so much looking for help as she was looking for a replacement. She withdrew more and more from the shop, leaving it in what she called Patroclus’ capable hands. She still came by at least once a week to help and to handle the finances, but Patroclus found himself alone more often than not, taking down phone and web orders, creating arrangements, and completing a variety of other minor errands. Each completed task, no matter how small, felt like another triumph. He took to talking himself through his own day out loud, first out of a deep sense of irony, but it soon became habit. This was all foolish, he knew. But there was no one here to judge him, and so he minded less and less.

To his own surprise, Patroclus realized he was actually quite good at his work. He had an eye for colour, shape and space that he had never noticed before, and he turned the care that he would have devoted towards patients towards his plants instead (and every day, they became more and more his plants).

He was less deft at handling customers, but his work often made up for where his decorum failed. The shop became busier and busier—so much so that Demeter hired Eurydice to help and, as promised, continued to compensate Patroclus as she saw fit.

“Surely you can’t be making enough to pay me this,” Patroclus protested one day after she handed him a sizeable cash bonus.

She scoffed at him. “Did you believe this shop was something that I did for profit?”

He only realized then that she dressed far too well to be a simple flower shop owner. In retrospect, he should have realized this the first time he saw her step out of her Bentley after her personal driver had opened the door.

“You deal with the worst part of this profession. I pay you appropriately.” She spoke as though it were a decree.

Patroclus offered her a rare smile. “You mean the customers.”

She returned the smile and pat him on the head before leaving.

Eurydice brought up the topic of money one Friday evening while cooking dinner for Patroclus and his roommates (she had received an open invitation from Theseus to do so after mentioning she was training to open her own restaurant, and had been visiting almost every Friday since).

“So…she’s not just paying _me_ way too much, right?” She asked, brow furrowed with concern as she poked the chicken with the meat thermometer.

Patroclus shook his head, not turning away from the vegetables of which he had taken charge. “I’ve asked her about it before. She insists it is fair. I am certain that she knows, and that she can afford it.”

“Yeah, that much is true,” Eurydice agreed, “Hang on, oven door.” She threw the chicken in and set the timer. “And it’s not like I’m complaining. I never thought I’d be able to afford school and also have enough time to myself. But…” she hesitated. “Why do you think she does it?”

Patroclus had liked Eurydice right away: she was content to work separately even while they were in together, and she filled the shop with beautiful song. He had also noticed some suspicious similarities between them: she had never worked with flowers before, had professional training that she had left behind, and bore the scars of her past—although literally on her arms and shoulders instead of etched jagged all over the heart as Patroclus did. They weren’t easy to see: a series of tattoos meant that her arms were more ink than skin, and she held herself with a confidence that suggested she didn’t feel them at all (once again, unlike Patroclus, whose scars, although invisible, were often written in plain view across his features).

With these coincidences in mind, Patroclus believed he had a guess.

“I think perhaps that she does not need the shop. But she does need to take care of it,” he hummed, turning away from the stove to answer. “It’s simply that she considers us a part of the shop too.”

\---

Several weeks after that, the stranger visited for the first time. The door chimed to herald his arrival, as did the sound of breaking glass.

“Oops.”

Patroclus peered out from the backroom to find a younger man moving too quickly through the shop and its precarious displays.

“Can I help you?” Patroclus asked, his eyes darting knowingly between the stranger and the broken succulent planter that was now splattered onto the tile floor.

“Sorry!” The younger man scratched at the back of his neck, embarrassed, and rushed to the desk with his wallet. Patroclus noticed in passing that it contained far too many hundred-dollar bills. The customer handed him one of these.

“That is too much, stranger,” Patroclus protested, but the younger man waved off his concern.

“For the extra trouble. I’ve destroyed your work,” he explained, still embarrassed. “Plus, I need your help.”

“We import these,” Patroclus pointed out, putting the bill back into the customer’s hand. He scrutinized the man in front of him closely while reaching for the broom and dustpan. The stranger looked too young to be carrying such a heavy wallet, and he wore his suit like an ill-fitting skin that he occasionally tried to shrug off. Perhaps he was one of those tech entrepreneurs. “What did you need?”

“I need a funeral wreath.”

“Ah,” Patroclus nodded, and stood. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, but it’s not really for me,” the younger man answered. “…I mean, it’s more of a joke,” the younger man corrected himself.

“A funeral wreath. As a joke.” Judgement must have been gathering at Pat’s brow, as the young man began to panic.

“I mean…yes, exactly that,” he stammered.

“These aren’t cheap, stranger,” Patroclus said mildly.

“Less a joke than a threat?” The man tried instead with a lopsided smile.

Patroclus shrugged. “Far be it for me to question my customers motives, as long as you understand the expense. How much would you like to spend, and are there any colours that you would prefer?”

“Ah…I’m not sure,” the young man confessed. “This is my first time purchasing something like this. What seems appropriate? $500?”

Patroclus blinked at him in surprise and didn’t even realize he was smiling until it was too late. The stranger looked quite pleased with himself at having caused it.

“I could make you an impressive one for $100.”

“Oh. Alright, that then!” The stranger took another hundred-dollar bill from his wallet.

“Hold on, hold on. Let me write up an invoice.” Patroclus guessed that this was not the customer’s money, given how easily he dispensed it. “When do you need it? And where should it be delivered?”

“Tomorrow. Here’s the address.” He fumbled for a piece of paper.

Patroclus must have been giving him one of those looks that Eurydice always teased him about—the one that he couldn’t control and that she said could “make a volcano freeze over”—because the young man began to panic again. “I should have come earlier.”

“It’s fine,” Patroclus waved off his concern. “What time?”

“9:00am.”

There was that panic again. Patroclus frowned and tried to force a more neutral expression.

“I’m sorry—”

“The store opens at 9, stranger,” Patroclus interrupted. “But I’ll see that it is delivered.”

“I’m terribly sorry about this.” The stranger looked more upset than was necessary. Patroclus found himself charmed. Not many customers apologized, even if the mistake was theirs, after all.

“I suppose I can let it slide,” he gave an exaggerated sigh, hoping that the younger man could read the humour in it. “Just please give me at least a couple day’s notice next time.”

His customer brightened immediately. “Thank you! There will definitely be a next time.”

Patroclus tilted his head. “A lot of deaths in your profession, are there?”

“Oh. Uh.” The stranger grasped at words. “Yes. I mean, not more than usual…”

How odd. Patroclus knew better than to press though, in a town like this.

“I’m simply jest,” Patroclus reassured him. “Can I have a name?”

The customer beamed at him and extended his hand. “Zagreus! Pleased to meet you.”

Patroclus blinked at the hand for a moment, unable to stop the fond smile from tugging at the corner of his lips yet again. Zagreus realized his mistake belatedly.

“You meant for the order.” The blush began to spread down his neck now.

“I meant for the order,” Patroclus confirmed, but took his hand anyway. “Patroclus.”

Zagreus grinned and him. He gripped just a bit too hard and appeared to be trying to shake Patroclus’ arm clear off his shoulder. Patroclus began to think that Zagreus never felt anything in half-measures.

“Patroclus,” Zagreus repeated, as he continued to shake his hand for longer than necessary. “Thank you. I will be seeing you again very soon!”

\---

Zagreus was as good as his word. He returned the week after, and then a few days after that. His enthusiasm was disarming: Eurydice had her own nickname for him after meeting him for the first time. It took Demeter about a month. Each time Zagreus visited, he asked for a funerary arrangement of some sort, and each time he would pay with cash.

“Just exactly what is your business, stranger?” Patroclus finally asked one day.

“My father manages a funeral home. We are often asked to procure flowers at the last minute.” Zagreus practically recited the answer from rote, and it was utterly unconvincing. Patroclus saw no reason to question the lie, knows it is safer not to.

“Ooh! What are these?” Zagreus pointed to one of the flowers in a bouquet nearby. While Zagreus might have been trying to distract Patroclus from their previous topic, he was also bouncing on the tips of his toes, and his delight seemed genuine. He had taken to dawdling after placing his order, and Patroclus didn’t have it in him to mind. The stranger was surprisingly good company.

“Ranunculus,” Patroclus answered. “Charming things.”

“Never heard someone describe flowers as being charming before,” Zagreus laughed.

Patroclus shrugged. “It’s what the flower symbolizes. Charm, attractiveness, a secret crush.”

Zagreus’ head snapped up so quickly and so comically that Patroclus began to smile before he could stop himself. “Did you need some?”

“…do they come any darker?”

“They can, yes.” Patroclus moved to his computer and tilted the screen so that Zagreus could see. He conducted a search on his wholesaler’s website. “Like this?” He pointed to a picture of dark purple flowers with a yellow pistil.

“Perfect!” Zagreus slammed both hands on the counter and several vases began to wobble. “Oops.”

Patroclus gently lifted Zagreus’ hands from the table, and pressed on his shoulders until he took a step back.

“Sorry,” Zagreus apologized sheepishly. “Could I…get a bouquet of these?”

“Not a funeral arrangement this time, I assume?” Patroclus guessed.

“No,” Zagreus grinned. “A gift.”

His excitement was contagious. Pat considered the request and his resources. “I can source these locally this week. Probably by Friday. How big would you like the bouquet?”

“Oh.” Zagreus furrowed his brow in concern. “I’m not sure. He gets embarrassed really easily…”

“Ah,” Pat nodded. “I’ll handle it. When would you like to pick up the bouquet?”

“Friday would be great!” Zagreus chirped, already taking out his wallet.

“No payment necessary,” Patroclus shook his head. “It will just be a few flowers.”

“I’d like to pay you for your work,” Zagreus protested.

“You’re our best customer,” Patroclus replied. “Consider this a gift from me as well. I hope that it will achieve its intended purpose.”

“Well…then thank you!” Zagreus gave him his lopsided grin. “He’ll love it I’m sure. Well, okay, I’m not entirely sure.”

“I’m sure that he will,” Patroclus assured him. “Even if he does not appear to like them right away. You did mention that he gets embarrassed easily, after all.”

“Thanks, I’ll try to remember that,” Zagreus laughed, already heading for the door. “See you Friday!”

It was then that Patroclus noticed the stray flower for the first time in the vase he kept beside the cash register—a pink camellia that Patroclus knew for certain he had not placed there himself.

\---

It appeared every so often: sometimes in the vase beside the register, sometimes just on the counter, waiting for Patroclus to find. It was always a pink camellia. Patroclus knew the meaning of this—his heart betrayed him, and dared to hope, had the audacity to imagine that Achilles might be waiting for him still.

He remembered a sunny afternoon spent in the city gardens, how he had pulled Achilles from one bush to another, and then another, eagerly explaining the symbolism of his favourite flowers and plants. Achilles had followed, smiling fondly at him and listening to his every word. Patroclus never believed that Achilles had truly been paying attention. Perhaps he had. But this was hope speaking again, nothing more.

_“And what is this one?” Achilles asked, running the tips of his fingers under a bright red bloom on a lush green tree._

_“I’ve told you already,” Patroclus chided. “We’ve seen them on the other path.”_

_“Tell me again,” Achilles murmured, kissing him on the cheek. “I like them.”_

_“Camellias,” Patroclus answered, tilting his head to accept the kiss. “They symbolize many things, depending on their colour. Love, affection, longing.”_

_Before Patroclus could protest, Achilles plucked one and tucked it behind Patroclus’ ear._

_“What are you doing?!” Patroclus chastised, grasping the flower, and looking left and right to see if anyone was watching. “Ridiculous.”_

_“I am,” Achilles agreed, “Ridiculous for you.”_

_Patroclus had laughed, and tucked the flower carefully into his coat pocket. He put it in a small vase once he returned home, wishing it would last forever, but knowing that it could not._

\---

He found another pink camellia on the counter early that morning, and holding to that memory, tucked it behind his ear. Demeter eyed it briefly when she arrived in the afternoon, but didn’t comment otherwise.

They worked on the day’s orders in a comfortable silence, as they often did, which gave Patroclus’ mind an uncomfortable amount of space to fill. He wondered at what the flowers meant, if they were actually from Achilles. He wondered at why his beloved had stayed away from so long, why he stayed away still, and could only conclude that the flowers were not from Achilles at all.

“You have more wrinkles on your forehead right now than I do, young man,” Demeter observed, not pausing her hand from its work. “What is the matter?”

“It’s nothing that can be fixed, my lady,” Patroclus answered, using his affectionate nickname for her.

Demeter fixed him with a disapproving stare, one that Patroclus recognized as her version of concern. He ignored it, having learned long ago that he was one of the few who could do so with no repercussions. Instead, he returned to his thoughts, speculated about why he was alone, spiraled downwards into an unreasonable depth over so simple a thing as a reappearing flower.

“Hand me a few alstroemeria.” Demeter’s request cut through the storm brewing in Patroclus’ head. He blinked, looked over at her arrangement, and retrieved three of the flowers, light blush in colour.

She nodded to approve of his choice. “You have a good sense for this.”

“I’m not sure anyone has ever accused me of having good sense at all.” That was a lie. Achilles had quite often, often to complain about it playfully.

“I find that hard to believe.” Demeter’s voice, as always, left little room for argument.

“I might remind you that I was training to be a doctor,” Pat pointed out, trimming the stems of the bright red rose he was working with. “And that I left to work here.”

“And I might remind you that you left, despite how foolish the decision looked on paper,” Demeter replied wryly. “Do you regret it?”

Patroclus paused, caught off-guard. No one had ever asked him this before. He had decided long ago that he _couldn’t_ continue, never giving any thought as to whether he had _wanted_ to. He searched himself, examined his experiences before and since.

“No,” he finally replied, realizing the truth as he said it. “I do not.”

“And do you not enjoy this work?” Demeter gestured to the blooms in organized bunches one side of the table, and to their completed arrangements on the other. “Is it not comforting that you can create something so beautiful, that you can bring happiness to others in such a simple way?”

Demeter had put her flowers down completely now and was staring at him in earnest. She was right, of course. He had needed this reassurance, that beauty and joy were still possible, after all that had happened. He had needed something to calm the beating of his heart since that day when he had woken to find Achilles _missing_ , because the idea still threatened to consume him whole each and every morning. But this helped.

He didn’t need to answer—Demeter watched the emotions play out across his face, and the lines of inquiry relaxed around her eyes. She patted at his hand, and continued on the next arrangement.

As before, the certainty with which Demeter had read him suggested a similar experience. Patroclus’ curiosity finally got the better of him.

“Demeter.”

“Hm.”

“Why did you open Elysian Flowers?”

Demeter’s hand paused and she turned to look at him fully again, her lips twisted into a frown that would cow any other. He waited.

“…my daughter,” Demeter finally answered softly. “She loved flowers.”

“Ah.” Patroclus nodded, noting the past tense right away.

“She disappeared,” Demeter continued. “Many years ago. My therapist suggested that I find something to do to occupy my time.” Here, Demeter laughed. “She was disappointed when I chose to open the shop in response to her suggestion. She was hoping that I would choose something that did not relate to my daughter at all.”

“If it brings you joy, then why question it?” Patroclus shrugged, returning to his work.

Demeter turned her severe gaze to him, but he doesn’t wilt. He had learned by now that it was a show of respect, almost of affection.

“Yes, precisely,” she nodded. “And you?”

Patroclus’ hand froze in mid snip.

“When I first hired you, you spoke of loss,” she said delicately.

“My lady, that was five years ago,” Patroclus pointed out.

She chuckled, but the sound contained little joy. “That doesn’t dull the pain, does it?”

Patroclus thought about the parts of the city that no longer belonged to him, because they had belonged to _them_ , together. He thought of waking in the hospital day after day, convinced that Achilles would return. He thought of the walls he had built around himself, brick by brick, hardened by grief he passed off as cynicism. He thought of the pink camellia, and the fragile and absurd hope that was already causing the wall’s foundation to crumble as though it had been nothing more than salt.

He swallowed hard, but turned his attention back to his arrangement. “No. It doesn’t.”

They shared another of their silences. Patroclus’ world began to waver, filtered by the wetness that began to collect at his eyes.

Demeter placed a hand over his.

“Come, young man,” she said crisply. “Time for lunch.”

“Oh.” Pat blinked rapidly to clear his vision. She was smiling at him with kindness.

“My treat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the language of flowers, pink camellias symbolize longing ;-;

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/fireflyquill)


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